


Happy Endings

by OfficialStarsandGutters



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 18:49:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2822441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfficialStarsandGutters/pseuds/OfficialStarsandGutters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Sebastian Moran and Jim Moriarty from the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Endings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HattaLee (Hatta_Lee)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=HattaLee+%28Hatta_Lee%29).



> For Elle, from her Mormor Secret Santa.  
> I hope you like it, sweet girl. I tried to combine the things you said you liked about the ship, with my interpretation of them. I don't often write pieces in the canon mainverse, as I feel most people have such a strong idea of how the ship should be characterised, and like most situations have been done already, so this was challenging for me. But a lot of love and effort has gone into this, and I can only hope that you enjoy it.  
> Merry Christmas, and happy 16th birthday, sweetheart! I hope your day is as lovely as you are. x

Sebastian's eyes meet his in the mirror behind the bar. In the dim light, they look completely dark; two black holes ready to swallow him. Sebastian downs the rest of his whisky, swivels around on his stool, and walks across to Moriarty's table.

“You know, you look creepy as fuck.”

“Is that how you address potential employers?”

“When they're staring at me like that, yeah.”

Sebastian looks down at the little man in the booth. He doesn't look intimidating at all. Everything about him is small, except for those eyes, big and dark, dominating his face. His forehead's a bit on the large side too... But he suits it, strangely. He looks far too young. Sebastian licks the corner of his mouth, skimming his eyes over Moriarty's form. Ripped jeans, a v-neck that dips a tad lower than necessary, and a tight leather jacket. Yeah, he doesn't look like the bogeyman, but the devil appears in disguise, and Sebastian knows better than to be fooled by it.

Anyone who's anyone in the criminal underground of London knows the name Moriarty, and knows the implications that come with it. Sebastian's heard all the horror stories. Fuck knows if they're true, but he's not going to risk questioning them. The stories alone would turn your shit white.

He's done quite a few hits for Moriarty himself. Didn't always know it was him; was hired under a cluster of different names before Moriarty admitted to it. They never met before, but he gave clear instructions and paid well, which is all Sebastian really asks for in a job, to be honest.

“Impressed you managed to pick me out,” Moriarty says. There's a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. Normal as he looks, something about him is unsettling.

“Yeah, well, no one else staring me down, was there?”

“Perhaps I was just checking you out. Building up the confidence to approach you.”

Moriarty's tongue slips out, catches on his lip and drags. Sebastian's eyes follow the movement, and his tongue starts to poke out, absently mimicking, before he catches himself.

“I'll pass, thanks. Not quite my type.”

“That so?”

“Yeah. Lacking a few qualities I look for.” Sebastian holds his hands up, cupping them in front of his chest to mime breasts. Moriarty just smiles at him, superior, as if he knows something Sebastian does not.

“Sit,” he says.

Sebastian obeys. He settles across from Moriarty, whose eyes continue to bore into him. Sebastian holds his gaze steadily. When he's in the shadows, Moriarty might be the Big Bad Wolf, but sitting in front of him, Sebastian sees a guy he could easily take out with a few well aimed blows. He is unafraid; he is naïve.

“You know why I'm here.”

“Yeah. And you know my answer.”

“Because you're doing so well freelance.”

“Get enough to survive.”

“More than enough, actually, but you squander it awfully. Can't keep yourself away from the bookmakers, can you?”

“Have you come to lecture me?” Sebastian sits back, eyes narrowed. He doesn't ask how Moriarty knows these things about him. He's heard the little shit can get any information on you, even the secrets stuffed in the deep, dark recesses of your mind. Sebastian's sure that's part exaggeration, but he hardly tries to hide his gambling habits.

“Not at all.” Moriarty blinks, and Sebastian realises it is for the first time. That's what is so unsettling about him. “I pay exceedingly well.”

“Look, I'm willing to do hits for you, I'm just not giving up my other hits. I don't do commitment.”

“I'm aware.” Moriarty's head rolls on his neck, the movement fluid from frequency. “But you see, I don't like to share.”

“That's your problem, then, isn't it?”

“Oh, it's about to be your problem, darling. Simply put; you work for me, or you work for no one. Hard to pull a trigger once rigor mortis has set in.”

From anyone else, he'd call a bluff, but his instincts tell him Moriarty means every word.

“Not much of a choice then.”

“Excellent. Your contract will be with you shortly.” Moriarty rises with a smile. “I'd tell you to read it carefully, but it doesn't matter much, does it?”

Sebastian doesn't answer. Moriarty slips out from the table, and starts to walk away.

“Wait,” says Sebastian.

He does, stilling in place, glancing back over his shoulder.

“You're not actually him, are you? Moriarty? You're just someone he sent.”

He does not get an answer.

Moriarty laughs, and laughs, and keeps laughing as he makes his way out of the bar. A high, unnerving sound that sticks to Sebastian's skin for the rest of the night.

*

There was a time, in his early days, when he was fresh and new and going into the unknown, that Sebastian found his army career challenging. In comparison to working for Moriarty, it now seems like child's play in his memory.

The first few months go without flaw. They're all standard hits, easy enough, the kind of thing that has become instinct to him. Taught; but still as natural as if he'd been born with it. He meets no difficulties, and as his body count grows, so does his bank account. Not an unwelcome change.

Then things start getting difficult.

If there was a bet running that Moriarty was trying to get him killed, Sebastian would take that bet. He goes from standard hits to suicide missions; hands on work with teams where Sebastian is often the only one that comes out alive. He's often sent in without maps or information, or even incorrect information, and sometimes he only scrapes out by the skin of his teeth.

But he does. Keeps crawling back from the bloodied ashes like the stubborn survivor he is. Moriarty isn't the first thing that's tried to kill him; fuck, his life always seems to be making an effort to bring itself to an early end, but somehow he keeps stumbling out the other side of even the worst of it.

There are a few months, though it seems so much longer, of jobs like this, and Sebastian gets used to the constant ache of his body; to bruises and scratches, to stitching himself up and pushing on. He sees broken bones and new scars and he loses a tooth, but he doesn't let any of it stop him. Not like he can really walk away from this job. It's been clear from the start; the only way to leave Moriarty's employment is in a body bag, if you even get that luxury.

Eventually, he's back to the kind of hits he excels at, even if they're a touch more challenging sometimes; pushing his guns distant limits, but hey, wouldn't be the first time he's shot beyond the recommended distance. He likes the opportunity to push and prove himself; even if he doesn't receive praise in response for it. He's still alive, that is approval enough.

*

When he is asked to accompany Moriarty to a meeting, Sebastian knows it is kind of a Big Deal. Fuck, half his empire don't even know who he is or what he looks like, so to be working directly alongside him, there's a great deal of trust and responsibility there.

Then the short man with the dark eyes that barely blinks shows up, and any pride Sebastian had felt at being requested drains from him.

“You again.”

“Shouldn't you be addressing your employer with a touch more respect than that?”

“Yes sir. Hello sir.”

“Very amusing.”

Sebastian can see why Moriarty picks this man to represent him. Despite his small size, there's something about him. He breezes in to the building, brimming confidence, and when they finally step in to an office, the two men and one woman present rise automatically. They don't sit again until he takes his seat, gesturing for them to join him.

Sebastian doesn't listen much to what they're discussing; doesn't care for it. It's all business negotiations, and it's boring to him. He's never really considered this part of crime. It's the kind of thing he was trying to escape; suits and meetings and offices with polished furniture made from expensive wood. It's too close to home for him, and it's the lifestyle he was raised for but never really accepted.

Father wanted him to follow in his footsteps; the private schooling, the high education, the perfect little soldier, and then once he'd served his term, he'd come home and take a position as a politician, marry someone just as rich and impressive as himself, have the woman pump out a few kids and send the boys through the same cycle all over again. Little boxes to be ticked off.

Fuck that.

He never intended the discharge, and while it certainly made things difficult for a few years, at this point he can't say he regrets it. Much better to be doing this with his life; something he finds exciting, something that still leaves him freedom. His only regret is the loss of contact with his mother, but the rest of the Morans can rot in their graves for all he cares.

He's so lost inside his own head that the sudden bark of a voice almost makes him jump.

Instantly alert, his hand goes for his gun at his waist, but too slow. The man he's supposed to be guarding has leapt across the table, and with one quick movement of his arm, there is blood shooting from one of his business associates' throats and splattering across his face.

The other man and the woman emit shocked gasps, but Sebastian is impressed. He doesn't know where the blade came from, never saw him pull it out, but he would never have expected the speed and efficiency of those movements.

“Does anyone else have any foolish complaints they would like to voice?”

He is met with silence from the room.

“Very well. I'll leave you to deal with that. It's been a pleasure. Moran, come.”

Sebastian looks once more at the body, now leaking blood on the desk, before padding out after the man.

“Are you allowed to do that?” he asks.

“I can do whatever I want.”

Then Sebastian is slammed against a wall before he even has time to defend himself, and the blade that still has blood on it is pressed to his throat. He swallows, and with the movement he can feel the touch of metal. With the red splattered over his face, the man's skin looks even paler, and those big, dark eyes are a stark contrast.

“What the fuck?” says Sebastian.

“Say my name.”

“I don't-”

The blade presses down. Sebastian falls quiet, warily watching the man. It's just biting into his skin now; enough to sting without breaking the surface, but he knows it will only take one quick pull sideways for his blood to join the rest on his face.

“Moriarty,” he says eventually; slow, cautious.

“Good boy.” Moriarty grins widely. He turns the blade sideways and drags the flat edge along Sebastian's skin, wiping the blood off of him. “We'll have to take the fire escape. What a hassle.”

Sighing, as if this is an awful inconvenience, Moriarty twirls on the ball of his foot and pads off down the hall, the blade slipping from sight. Sebastian watches him for a moment, hand coming up to touch his throat. His fingers come away with blood on them.

As he follows Moriarty down the fire escape to a dirty alley below, Sebastian finally believes he is who he says.

*

That seems to be his unspoken promotion, because more and more often he's brought along with Moriarty on jobs. Sometimes there's another one or two men there, but usually it's just him. For the most part it's rather boring; he stands and looks intimidating and doesn't really pay attention to the words, just focuses on keeping guard. Occasionally he's asked his opinion, but this is rare.

On the days someone fucks up, or Moriarty is in a bad mood, he is the executioner. They are easy deaths, not the way he likes to kill; no challenge or skill involved. Just a bullet to the head at point blank range, or the quick snap of a neck. Bang. Crack. We all fall down.

The first time Moriarty brings him abroad with him, he's surprised. It's a different kind of job, more contact hours than he's used to. Usually they meet, get the job done, and Moriarty heads off back to wherever he dwells when he's not causing chaos.

This time, they share a suite in a hotel, and when they're not working, Moriarty wears shorts and loose t-shirts and sunglasses that are too big, but Sebastian considers how big his eyes are, so maybe he needs them. He sees him coming from the shower with ruffled hair and a towel slung low around his waist, sees him chewing on toast in the mornings, and reading books on the balcony.

It shouldn't come as a surprise. He knows, of course, that beneath it all, Moriarty has always been just another person. He knows this, but he also knows how special Moriarty is; how important, how intelligent, how fucking brilliant, that it seems so bizarre to witness this complex creature of a man get sunburn on his nose.

“You should have been wearing sun cream, sir.”

“I hate sun cream. It makes my skin feel all greasy.” Moriarty pulls a face, rubbing Aloe Vera on to the red, raw skin of his nose. “And you can call me Jim.”

Jim.

Three letters, one syllable. It doesn't feel like enough, but Sebastian does as he's told.

*

It is hard to view Jim as a man.

It is hard to view him as simply human, most times. He is something beyond that. He is a dark secret, a murmured threat, a force of nature; screaming chaos or deathly silence. He is a different breed. Something more, something not of this world; or something that shouldn't be.

He is confined within his human body, and he is confined within this world, and Sebastian thinks he was made for greater things, but he doesn't know what he could be more fitted for. If this were mythology perhaps Jim would be a chaotic god, but he is not, he is human, real and solid and warm, and even though Sebastian has always had a preference for women, there is something so appealing about him, something intoxicating in his power, and his intelligence, and in those big, dark, barely blinking eyes. It's hard to view Jim as a man, and perhaps that's why.

It's always an awful idea to get attracted to your boss, but, well, since when has that ever stopped Sebastian doing anything?

*

The first time they get off together, it is raw and fast and over too soon.

Jim has just barely missed a bullet through the head, and Sebastian has taken the bastard behind the gun down. He does it with his own hands; hits and punches and slams his head against the floor until the man is nothing but a mess of blood and bone beneath his fingers. He's breathing hard, chest and throat burning with each inhale and exhale, and that was close, so close, too close. He's not supposed to let things like this happen. He's supposed to keep Jim safe.

“Fuck.” He forces himself to his feet. His legs are shaky, his heart beating in a hard, solid rhythm against his chest, and he is splattered with blood. “Are you alright?”

Jim's a little worse for wear, but nowhere as bad as Sebastian. He'd been knocked out of the way in a bid to protect him, and he's battered from the fall, his suit dirtied and torn in a few places, but better a few holes in his fancy blazer than one big hole in the back of his head.

“Fine,” he says, getting to his feet.

Sebastian makes the effort of stumbling closer anyway. Jim would say that he's fine, but Sebastian wants to be sure. Jim watches him as he approaches, and those eyes are even darker than usual, pupils blown wide.

“I can look after myself,” he says.

“Jim, fuck-” Sebastian doesn't get the words out. Jim grabs a fistful of his shirt and drags him down. His other hand moves to Sebastian's hair, tugging strands and holding firm as he kisses him hard.

Sebastian's brain sparks and fizzles. His focus shifts from the pain, from the concern, from anything other than fighting back as Jim tries to consume him. It's not a sweet kiss, not a special kiss, not a perfect rom com kiss. It is a fight from the beginning, each pushing for dominance, and when Sebastian gets his tongue into Jim's mouth and wins a moan, he feels like a victor until Jim bites down hard. The message is clear; even when there is some give, Jim is the one in charge.

So as Sebastian moves him back against the wall and holds him in place with the weight of his body, the firm press of his hips, he's aware that Jim could change it all with a click of his fingers. If anything, that only makes it more exciting, the pretence of control, the scrambling struggle to come out on top. Jim bites his lip until it bleeds and he pulls Jim's hair until his scalp aches, he sinks his teeth into Jim's throat, allows bruises to blossom in their wake, and Jim leaves tracks down the length of his back with sharp little claws. It's half a display of passion, half a contest to see who can rip the other apart first.

It's difficult to get a hand between them with Jim writhing against them so deliciously, but Sebastian manages. It takes him longer than it usually would to work Jim's trousers open, but he is distracted by the hot, forceful mouth against his. Finally, he's pushing material out of the way and taking Jim's warm, hard cock in his hand, giving it a firm squeeze that has Jim gasping into his mouth. Sebastian chuckles, trailing kisses along Jim's jaw and nipping at his ear as he starts jerking him in a quick, rough rhythm.

Jim is making an array of sounds; little whimpers and loud, drawn out moans, all shooting right to Sebastian's own throbbing cock, and he needs something, some form of relief. He ignores Jim's growl of protest when he removes his hand, sinking instead to his knees and nuzzling against Jim thigh. He looks up through his lashes, licking his lips before he drags his tongue along the length of Jim's cock, working to get his own trousers open as he does so.

Jim slumps back against the wall, his hips lazily rolling forward as he tries to get more friction. Once Sebastian has a hand curled around himself, he gives Jim more attention, suckling his head before taking him further into his mouth. He's had a few experiences with guys, sure, but for the most part he considers himself straight, so this isn't an area of expertise. Still, he lets enthusiasm make up for lack of experience, working lips and tongue and the slightest tease of teeth to make Jim fall apart beneath him. If the sounds he's making are anything to go by, Sebastian isn't doing too badly.

It's not long before Jim's hand is in his hair, fingers gripping tight enough that his scalp burns every time he moves away from them to take Jim in deeper, but he doesn't stop. He's stroking himself off with his free hand, working himself quickly as he hollows his cheeks around Jim's cock. The hand tightens in his hair, holds him in place as Jim fucks into the back of his throat, and even as Sebastian chokes around him, it's that that sends him over the edge; that roughness, that abuse, that act that makes him feel so used and filthy and fucking hot all over.

Jim keeps fucking his mouth, holding him in place with both hands now, and it's not long before he follows Sebastian over. It's difficult to swallow when he's already gagging around Jim's cock, and Sebastian is left gasping to regain his breath, with come dribbling down his chin. He looks up at Jim's panting form, as if waiting for further instruction.

“You've got a little...” Jim gestures at his own chin, and then he's giggling as he does up his trousers again and steps over Sebastian.

And that's that.

*

He isn't so much invited to live with Jim, as he is ordered.

“I've decided I want live in protection,” says Jim.

“Oh,” says Sebastian.

“Yes. I'll give you a week to get your stuff together.”

He would try to argue, but what's the point? Jim always gets what he wants.

*

Sometimes what he wants is Sebastian on his knees, nose pressed against Jim's skin, cock at the back of his throat. He's getting better at the technique now, learning all the things that Jim likes, what to do with his tongue and when to add suction and how to tease with his teeth occasionally; after all, they say practice makes perfect, and he gets plenty of that.

Perhaps not as much as he'd like. Jim seems to go through periods of intense sexual energy, and then through lulls where he hardly glances at Sebastian, never mind touches him. He's used to fucking on a regular basis since he's been back in England, so the lulls are unwelcome, but he's gone for longer while at war, and Jim's worth the wait.

Definitely worth the wait.

Especially when he gives Sebastian the illusion of control; because they are both aware that Jim is always the one in control. When he lets Sebastian spread his legs and then spread him open, with fingers and then with his cock. When he lets Sebastian bend him over his desk or the couch and fuck him hard, gripping at his hips until there are bruises from his fingertips. When he gets between Sebastian's legs and takes him in to the warm, perfect heat of his mouth, and looks up at him with those big, dark eyes.

Fuck.

Sebastian hisses out a breath, coming into his hand. He holds it up under the spray of the shower, lets the water rinse away his release before he reaches for the shower gel.

They're in a lull right now, but it won't be long until he has the real thing again.

*

Jim is not the easiest to live with.

He is volatile, unpredictable, and at times, extremely self destructive. It is one thing attempting to protect Jim from outside forces, but another entirely to protect him from himself. Sebastian makes him food that often goes untouched, wakes up in the morning to find Jim still working on the couch, and sometime he attempts to kill the body he's been trapped in.

It is tiring, but so far, Sebastian has kept on top of it.

He doesn't know how Jim has managed to survive this long without him; doesn't know how he didn't die off living on his own, but there must be some survival streak in Jim that is stronger than his urge to ruin himself. Sebastian can only be thankful for that.

“What's this?”

“Toast.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“You have to eat.”

“I said-”

“Jim.”

The plate flies across the room. It hits a wall and shatters; toast falling to the floor. Sebastian's eyes follow it, but he does not move. Jim is in one of his black spells, and it is when he is at his lowest that he is at his most vicious.

“When I say I'm not hungry,” he says. “I mean that I'm not hungry.”

“Right.”

Sebastian nods. He brushes up the broken shards of the plate, and throws them in the bin along with the piece of toast. It's not always easy living with Jim, and he has learned to pick his battles.

*

“Did you send me those blueprints?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. What about Henderson?”

“He's been dealt with.”

“And the Morgansen clan?”

“Waiting for a response, but it's looking promising.”

“Mmm.”

“Fuck.”

“Oh, what about-”

“Can you stop talking about work for two minutes while I'm trying to fuck you?”

“Two minutes? Thought you could last longer than that.”

“Funny.”

“I thought s- _oh_.”

*

Sebastian doesn't know when it stops just being sex and work.

The first time he realises, is when a bullet grazes Jim, just a few inches away from fatal damage, and Sebastian feels panic and worry and fear. Not just at his own failure; but at the very real possibility that Jim could be gone, just like that. They are not emotions he deals with on a regular basis, not emotions he is used to feeling strongly; they are the kind of thing he stamps down on and locks away and ignores.

He doesn't know how to feel.

He shoots the woman to blame through the forehead and steps over her body. Jim is leaning against the wall, gripping his ribs, and there is already blood blossoming through the material of his jacket. Sebastian takes him home, cleans his wound, stitches it up and bandages it. He makes Jim tea with three sugars and feeds him chocolate biscuits to get his blood sugar levels up, so he won't faint after the blood loss. He gives him painkillers, and when he's sure he's alright, he puts him to bed, ignoring Jim's protests.

For as loudly as he claims not to be tired, he's asleep within ten minutes.

Sebastian stands over the bed and looks at the pale body between the sheets; Jim's skin even more deprived of colour than usual. He's not used to caring for someone. It's a foreign feeling, settling uncomfortably in his chest, and he does not know how to deal with it.

The one thing he does know is that if anyone ever tries to hurt Jim again, Sebastian will destroy them.

*

The years slip by.

Sebastian's body count steadily increases, as does the money in his bank account.

He is not always happy, but overall, he is the most content he can ever remember being.

Until Sherlock Holmes appears.

*

“Sweetheart, can you drop me off at work? I don't want to be late on my first day.”

“What?”

Sebastian looks up at Jim. He's in tight jeans and a low v-neck, which is rare, but not unknown to him, so that doesn't really explain what he's asking.

“I'm starting my new job today,” Jim says, pulling on a jacket. “Did I not mention it?”

“No.”

“Whoops. Silly me. Must have slipped my mind.” Jim giggles, gathering his wallet and keys. “So, will you run me to work?”

“Where?”

“Ah, right, yeah! I didn't mention; down at Bart's hospital. I'm their new IT consultant.”

“Do I even want to know?”

“Know what, love?” Jim looks at him with a façade of innocence, and Sebastian decides no, he does not want to know. “Come on, I don't want to be late.”

*

“You have a girlfriend.”

“I have a girlfriend.”

“Right.”

“Don't look so sullen.”

“I'm not.”

“Sebastian.”

“I said, I'm not.”

“Not a real girlfriend.”

“Right.”

“I'm not going to fuck her.”

“Right.”

“It's just a way of getting close to Sherlock.”

“Yeah, right.”

“You're adorable when you're jealous.”

“Fuck off.”

*

Jim appears in his scope, and Sebastian's focus sharpens.

He strolls closer to the mark, hips swaying, and is he–? He is. The little fucker is dancing. He twirls around the man, fingers trailing along his jaw, and Sebastian watches closely through his scope. He can't clearly make out their facial expressions, but he can see how the mark tilts his head in a show of confusion.

It is all Sebastian can do not to laugh. The vibration of it will shake his rifle, and he needs to keep it still, needs to keep it aimed so he can react instantly if anything goes wrong. Not that the poor sod seems like much of a threat, thrown off guard by Jim's body moving in time with a silent beat.

Jim's hands go up.

Sebastian's finger tenses over the trigger. He wondered why Jim gave him such a bizarre signal, but now he understands. Jim's arms fall down to his sides in a dramatic swoop. Sebastian pulls the trigger, and the mark's body falls as well.

Jim skips over him, and Sebastian catches him doing one last twirl before he disappears from the view of his scope.

*

“Did you enjoy the show?”

“Oh, was that supposed to be for my benefit?”

Jim doesn't answer. He raises one perfectly maintained eyebrow, a silent expression of his disapproval at Sebastian's attitude. They are so attuned to each other by now that Sebastian can read most of his body language, that they can communicate without words. Useful for meetings, kind of annoying the rest of the time, but Jim doesn't put feelings in to words, and he doesn't say things he feels should be obvious. Sebastian's had to adapt to their non-verbal communication.

“The movement of your hips could have had more fluidity,” he says, because Jim hates criticism of any kind, and Sebastian will take any small victory he can get.

“I assure you, my hips are very fluid.” Jim makes a show of swaying them as he walks past, pausing in front of Sebastian to roll his ass back against him.

He resists the urge to grab at Jim's hips, keeping his hands by his sides.

“Come along. Time for us to disappear.”

Sebastian's tongue skims out to wet his lips, and he follows a step behind Jim, watching how he purposefully sashays, those hips swinging, and if he were wearing the right jeans, Sebastian could easily mistake them for a women's.

“I feel like dancing tonight,” Jim says, glancing over his shoulder. “If your old bones are up for it.”

“Fuck off.”

“I'll take that as a yes.”

*

The club is loud and hot and thrumming with life. Sebastian can feel the vibrations of the bass, of people jumping and dancing, moving from the floor up through his legs, settling in his bones. Jim is plastered against his side, and Sebastian's sure he's taken something; he's too giddy, smiling too widely, his eyes are bright, but the pupils are swallowing them up.

He won't complain, though. Jim is all dressed up, or perhaps dressed down, considering his usual attire. All tight, dark jeans that look painted on, tight shirt with low neck line that shows off far more of his chest than necessary. He's already got a few glances; male and female alike, and Sebastian curls a possessive arm around him. In this state, God knows what he'd let anyone do to him. Sebastian won't let that happen while he's around. He intends to be the one fucking Jim through the mattress and out of his mind tonight.

“You want a drink?” he murmurs, voice close to Jim's ear to be heard over the music.

Jim nods his enthusiastic approval, and Sebastian abandons him on the floor to make his way to the bar. He watches Jim as he waits, already lost in the music. His arms are stretched above his head, his small body moving in time with the beat, and he looks fucking gorgeous. Sebastian would have him against the wall here, if it wouldn't get them kicked out, if Jim wasn't so intent on spending the night grinding among strangers.

Not his usual past time, but Sebastian can get on board with it.

He returns with a brightly coloured cocktail for Jim, and a whisky for himself. Jim sips through a straw as he rolls his hips against Sebastian, looking up at him through dark lashes, and when he sucks enough to hollow his cheeks, it's obscene, shouldn't do anything for him, but Sebastian feels heat shoot through his stomach to his cock. Jim knows just how to play him.

Sebastian downs his own drink in one go and abandons the glass on an empty table, before placing his hands on Jim's hips and dragging him closer. Jim giggles, and his head is rolling on his shoulders; not the usual reptilian side to side, but like his neck is having trouble holding it up. Sebastian would be worried about what he's taken, but there's no danger signs. Yet. He'll have to watch his alcohol intake so he can stay alert, keep an eye on Jim.

Jim is all easy, instinctive movement; practically pasting himself against Sebastian's front and shifting their bodies together in a way that is really just vertical grinding. He makes his way through three more cocktails before he leads Sebastian to the door, and when he kisses him on the way home, Jim's mouth tastes like strawberry and vodka.

Sebastian palms him lazily through his too tight jeans in the car, and Jim whimpers and arches beneath him, but makes no move to progress things further. Whatever is in his system is making him soft and pliable for once. He sucks on Sebastian's lip rather than bites, clutches at his shoulders with fingers, not nails, whines and bares his throat willingly for Sebastian's teeth like a submission. It's only for tonight, but Sebastian makes sure to cherish it.

He scoops Jim over his shoulder in a fireman's lift, because he's stumbling all over the place, and carries him up to their flat. Jim giggles but makes no protest, a sure sign that he's not in his usual state of mind, and if Sebastian were someone of higher moral standing, he might question fucking him tonight. As it is, he's been painfully hard since before they left the club, so he can't wait to strip Jim off and fuck him hard.

He does, though. He waits, and takes his time, teasing Jim until he's begging. Sebastian takes him to their room and strips him slowly; kissing, licking, and biting at each new expanse of skin as it is bared to him. He slicks his fingers up and takes his time preparing Jim, stretching him with two fingers, then three, and he contemplates a forth, but he's not sure he can deny himself the pleasure of taking Jim much longer.

Sitting against the headboard, Sebastian helps Jim on to his lap. He holds his slicked up cock with one hand, the other on Jim's hip as he lowers himself down. Jim's lips are parted, his face flushed, and his pupils blown wide. He moans as he sinks down onto Sebastian's cock, and Sebastian holds him in place, lets him get used to the stretch before he allows him to start bouncing.

Jim's rhythm is sloppy, he's moving lazily, without any real force, but it still feels good, so Sebastian doesn't complain. His hands on Jim's hips prompt him up, before letting him fall back down again, and it's not long before Sebastian's hips are shifting up to meet him. It's not their usual style of fucking; fast and hard and aggressive, a fight for dominance disguised as passion, even though they both know Jim has won it from the start. This is slow, languid, and Sebastian enjoys the difference for once.

Until he gets close, then he flips them over and fucks Jim into the mattress, the headboard moving with each of his forceful thrusts. Jim whimpers and whines and writhes beneath him, legs spread wide for Sebastian, curling around his hips. Sebastian presses his forehead to Jim's shoulder when he comes, body shuddering. He reaches between them, curling his fist around Jim and jerking him off roughly. It only takes a few tugs for Jim to follow him over.

Sebastian cleans them up and makes Jim drink two pints of water before he lets him sink into the duvet. He wakes early himself, for his usual morning run, and when he returns to the flat Jim is already gone.

*

“I met Sherlock today,” Jim says, and Sebastian fights to keep how little he cares from his facial expression. “His facial structure is a lot more impressive in person.”

Sebastian says nothing.

“He didn't know who I was,” Jim continues. “That was a bit disappointing, but it only proves what I thought; I'm more clever than him.”

Sebastian says nothing. He could have told Jim that.

“I gave him my number, so he can call me if he works it out.”

“Jim, what the fuck?”

Jim looks at Sebastian with a frown, unblinking, the little cunt.

“What if he traces it to you?”

“He won't.”

“You don't know that.”

“I do.” Jim walks past, drawing his nail from Sebastian's temple to his chin as he does. “Your jealousy is getting dull.”

*

Sebastian inhales sharply through his nose when Holmes lowers the gun, aims it at the Semtex vest between Jim and himself. He wants to aim on Holmes' stupid head of fucking curls, pull the trigger and collapse his body into the pool, turn the water red with his blood. He could do it. He could get his shot before Holmes has a chance to pull the trigger.

He doesn't. Jim hasn't given him the signal.

_Yet_ .

He waits. He hopes.

He has never been so glad to hear the fucking Bee Gees in his life. 

*

“What were you doing? You could have died out there!”

“I know. Wouldn't that have been exciting?” 

Jim grins up at him, and even Sebastian, so used to Jim's fucking weird mood shifts, is left unsettled. 

*

He sees less and less of Jim lately.

He rarely comes to bed, rarely curls up by Sebastian's side on the couch, rarely looks at him now, let alone touches him. He keeps sending Sebastian on away jobs, and while there are no danger signs, he can't help but feel wary, like this is a calm before the storm.

He misses the warm press of Jim's body against his beneath their sheets. It's not just about the sex; it stopped being about that a long time ago. He misses the sex, yes, but mostly he misses the closeness, those moments of intimacy that he is so rarely allowed to share with Jim. Lately, he has been deprived of even those.

He really hates Sherlock fucking Holmes and Jim's ridiculous fixation on him. 

So he's jealous. Awful, burning jealousy that sears right to the core of him. Call it a character flaw, call it whatever the fuck you like, he can't ignore it. He can deny to Jim, but what's the point? Little bastard has always seen right through him. Sebastian is so jealous he feels almost blind with it sometimes, because Jim is a disease beneath his skin, Jim is something settled into his blood and bone, Jim has dug down to his core and buried himself there, so Sebastian can never be without him, but to Jim, Sebastian is merely a disposable fancy. 

Sebastian doesn't know what he wants more; to be free of this addiction, this dependency on Jim, or for Jim to need him in the same way. He knows it's mad, twisted, unhealthy, but that doesn't stop it clawing against his chest. He can't shut it down.

He knows he will never captivate Jim in the way Jim captivates him, he has accepted that. He just wants back the small part of Jim that he used to have.

*

He hasn't seen Jim in weeks.

He isn't too concerned, until Jim comes home, thin and tired and dirty, beaten and bruised, weak and thin and frail.

“What happened?”

Jim shakes his head. His dark eyes are sunken in his head, underlined with dark bags and outlined in dark circles. He looks exhausted, and Sebastian wants to ask him so many things, but he doesn't. 

“Run me a bath,” Jim says, and Sebastian does. 

He washes Jim's hair and rubs his shoulders, noting the dark marks of violence on his body. He makes Jim tea and toast, brings it to him in bed, and leaves him be. Jim sleeps for sixteen hours, and when he pads barefoot into the living room, the only explanation offered is; 

“Mycroft Holmes is not the most charitable host.”

*

“I'm going to steal the Crown Jewels.”

“Right.”

“I'm being serious.”

“Okay.”

“Do you think I'll get away with it?”

“I think you can get away with anything you want to.”

“Aw. You're sweet.”

“Ha.”

“I'm going to let them catch me.”

“What?”

“Don't look so alarmed, darlin'. All part of the game.”

“Right.”

“It won't be much longer now.”

“Good.”

*

The bed dips. Sebastian blinks awake, staring groggily into the dark. He feels Jim shift closer to him, feels the cold press of Jim's skin into the warmth of his own. He's not properly awake yet, but he automatically rolls towards Jim, pulls him closer so he can transfer warmth.

Jim's mouth meets his, firm, but slow. He kisses Sebastian awake; languidly exploring his mouth, delving into it with his tongue and coaxing Sebastian's into response. His fingers clench in Sebastian's hair, pull him closer, until the press of mouth on mouth is painfully hard. Sebastian's hands are soft on Jim's back, fingers trailing down the expanse of skin, contrasting Jim's aggression.

Jim is all bony fingers pressing into his skin, teeth nipping at his lip, a raging force seeking a reaction, but Sebastian won't give it, not tonight. It's been too long since he's had Jim. He doesn't want a rush of fury and lust; he wants to enjoy this, store it away, remember and cherish it so he has something fresh to get himself off to when Jim deprives him again. 

He rolls them over, uses his weight to hold Jim down on the bed, and pins his wrists above his head. Jim growls his protest. He wriggles and squirms, makes a decent attempt to buck Sebastian off, but though he is stronger than he looks, he is not as strong as Sebastian. Sebastian waits. His eyes have adjusted to the dark, and he stares down at those unblinking eyes until Jim stops struggling against him. 

“Good,” he says, and kisses Jim before he has time to respond, muffling any words that might have been coming between their lips. 

Sebastian works his way down Jim's throat, kissing and licking, teasing him until Jim is wriggling beneath him for an entirely different reason. He sucks a string of bruises along the base of Jim's throat. His shirt collar will hide them from the world, but he and Jim will know they are there, Sebastian's silent claim on him. His invisible mark. 

Jim is needy tonight. He begs and whines, he rolls his hips down against Sebastian's fingers when they finally push into him. Sebastian steals kisses even as he fingers Jim open. When he moves back, he meets Jim's gaze, silently requesting him to stay in place as Sebastian slowly releases his wrists. Jim seems to get the message, for his arms stay above his head. Sebastian licks down his chest, pausing briefly to flick his tongue over Jim's nipples, roll one between his teeth, but he has a goal in sight, and he's eager to have Jim's cock in his mouth after so long. To prove his worth. To show Jim what he's been missing. 

Sebastian keeps fucking Jim with his fingers as he circles his tongue around the head of his cock. He looks up at Jim, and he can just about make out his eyes in the dim light of their room. Jim watches as Sebastian takes him all the way to the back of his throat, but then his head rolls back and his hips press forward. Sebastian can tell from the little bucking motion of them that Jim is torn between thrusting up into his mouth or fucking himself down on Sebastian's fingers. 

Jim is uncharacteristically quiet. He still moans like a whore, filthy sounds pouring from his mouth in a constant flow, but he doesn't beg or command Sebastian to hurry up and fuck him, doesn't bark orders, doesn't murmur a string of dirty talk that is as much for his own pleasure as it is for Sebastian's. He just takes what he is given and rewards Sebastian with sounds of approval.

Once he thinks Jim's getting close, Sebastian eases off. He crawls up over Jim's body, and spends another five minutes just kissing him thoroughly; groping and caressing him, biting and licking, reclaiming Jim's body as his, if only for tonight. 

Finally, he parts Jim's legs and settles between them. He brushes the tip of his cock over Jim's entrance, teasing, before slowly pressing in. Jim hisses through his teeth as Sebastian stretches him open. He keeps going until all of his cock is inside Jim, and then he just stays there, staring into the two black holes that are Jim's eyes.

“Move,” Jim says eventually, and it is meant as an order, but there is something in his voice that seems softer than it should to Sebastian, sounds almost fond. If it were not for that, he would make Jim wait longer, but that vague hint of emotion prompts him into movement.

He wants to go slow. Wants to make this last, cherish each moment of it, but Jim is hot and tight and perfect around him, and once he starts moving it is hard to stop. Jim's hands finally come down from above his head. His fingers curve into claws, and he leaves bloody tracks down Sebastian's back as Sebastian pounds into him. 

Jim coming around him pushes him over the edge, and he collapses beside Jim, curls around his small body to stop him from fleeing. Tonight, he is Sebastian's, even if it is only an illusion, and a temporary one at that.

*

There are no happy endings.

Holmes jumps. His head hits the ground and cracks open like an egg; spills blood and brains from him the way the colour spills from John Watson, leaves him cold and grey and shaking, reaching for his detective even as they pull him away.

All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put Sherly together again.

Sebastian keeps his position until he's sure, then he packs his rifle away and waits for Jim to meet him. Five minutes pass. No sign of the little prick. Sebastian would be annoyed, but Holmes is dead, and he is too fucking elated to let anything impact that.

He jogs up the stairwell, makes his way on to the roof. He breathes in the air of a world that no longer contains Sherlock Holmes, and he swears it tastes fresher. The corner of his mouth is curved up in the hint of a smile; unable to fully conceal his delight. 

That is, until he sees Jim.

Sebastian stops dead in his tracks, and his stomach clenches painfully. His smile falters, then falls completely. He steps closer, his eyes following the trickle of red running from the back of Jim's head, up to his face, smiling unblinking up towards the sky. 

“Jim?” His voice almost cracks. 

He gets no answer. 

There are no happy endings.

 


End file.
